Forget-Me-Not
by Louise Hargadon
Summary: Oneshot. Set at the end of Episode 1.01. Porthos carries Athos home, where Athos dreams a deep, drunken sleep in which he is always unable to escape his past and the memory of the one woman he ever loved.


_**A/N: **I cannot even begin to explain how happy I am that there is finally a fandom for The Musketeers. Other women have Mr Darcy or Mr Rochester as their ultimate literary crush, but mine has been Athos since I was about four years old. At last! Other people who get to see how amazing he is! So I am totally delighted, and if I end up posting a bazillion Musketeers fics I can only apologise to anyone who follows me for other fandoms. This was my first, even before Thunderbirds! _

_The cover photo was a screencap made for me by Tumblr user** shoesofmoriarty**, to go with the story. Thanks very much!_

_**Disclaimer: The Three Musketeers **and all its sequels were written by the French literary genius,** Alexandre Dumas**, and so all the characters are his. The **BBC adaptation **was created by** Adrian Hodges **and so far is bloomin' awesome. I am simply borrowing the characters and messing with them a little bit before putting them back where I found them._

**Forget-Me-Not**

As Porthos had predicted, Athos did indeed require carrying home that night. He had lifted the cup to his wine-stained lips, and no sooner had the liquid touched his tongue than his body finally decided that enough was enough for that night, and he slumped over the table.

"You're making a habit of this, my friend," Porthos said, grunting under Athos' weight as he hoisted his drunken friend over his big, strong shoulders. Athos replied with an indecipherable mumble of acknowledgement, which was probably no more than he would have said had he been sober. "I may not always be around to pick you up," he added, not too worried by the fact he had accidentally hit Athos' head on the door frame on the way out of the tavern. Athos was either too drunk or too unconscious to answer by this point.

Of course, he would never say anything to Athos when he was sober, and even if he did, Athos would silence him with a hard stare, those sad blue eyes penetrating through Porthos' soul and spirit and making his own heart feel a little heavier. Everyone had had his heart broken before - that was what made men of them. If a man hadn't fallen victim to the charms of the wrong woman then he hadn't lived. It was falling for those charms that helped to make life so interesting. Still, a man was supposed to pick himself up and move on after these experiences, not avoid women altogether. Athos showed little interest in women and had done since Porthos had known him. Indeed, the women that had crossed his path during that time had been largely treated with either weary cynicism or cold contempt.

Whatever had happened to Athos before he had become a Musketeer, Porthos knew that he must have suffered beyond anything he himself could comprehend at the hands of a woman. For five long years, he had seen his friend, his brother-in-arms, torture himself in this way on a regular basis. It never got easier to see him in that state. If Athos drank to forget, or to dance and be merry and join in with his and Aramis' roguish antics, Porthos wouldn't have wasted a moment of concern over him. However, he couldn't help but feel that in some way Athos kept drinking to punish himself, to wallow in his loneliness and pain, and he was too brave and too good a man, and too honourable a friend, for Porthos not to feel a certain degree of uneasiness over the abject misery Athos exuded during his lowest moments.

"Is any woman worth this trouble?" Porthos asked, carrying his friend up the stairs to his bedroom before tipping him bodily onto his rickety old bed. Athos let out a groan of pain. "You'll feel worse in the morning, believe me!"

"Forget," Athos muttered, so quietly that Porthos almost didn't hear him.

"Forget what?" Porthos asked, frowning with concern. Athos shook his head listlessly, his breathing becoming heavy and laboured with a mixture of anxiety and his inebriated state.

"Promise."

Porthos' frown deepened. He clapped Athos' shoulder softly, presuming that Athos was talking in his sleep.

"Sleep well, my friend. You'll need the rest," he said, a rueful smile dimpling his features, before leaving the room and returning to his own home.

Athos fumbled about his throat, his fingers pushing through what felt like fifteen different layers of clothing before he felt the strangely reassuring sensation of the thin gold chain against the calloused skin on his fingertips. He gripped hold of the locket and, with some extreme effort, managed to open it and look at the pressed forget-me-nots inside. He closed his eyes and prayed to a God in whom he could no longer believe to take his pain away, before finally falling into a deep sleep.

She was there again, in the clearing by the tree, wearing the blue dress that he loved to see her in the most. He held a small sprig of forget-me-nots in front of him, presenting them to her as earnestly as if he were a small boy giving a present to the prettiest girl he had ever seen for the first time in his life. She looked up at him, smiling softly, her eyes shining with happiness, her tousled hair blowing softly in the wind and framing her beautiful, perfect face.

Then, reaching out with long, delicate, white fingers, she took the forget-me-nots from him and brought them to her, brushing the petals of the small flowers lightly against her skin. Standing so close to her that he could feel her breathing, he gently caressed her cheek before leaning into her and pressing his soft lips to hers, his arms wrapping more tightly around her as his kiss deepened.

"Will you always love me, my Comte?" she asked, brushing her lips gently against his neck as she spoke.

"Forever," he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.

"Never leave me," she said, her eyes pleading for him to kiss her once more. He cupped her face in his hands as he kissed her mouth.

"I promise," he whispered.

Suddenly, before he knew what was happening, he felt a sharp, burning pain in his abdomen. He cried out in agony and looked down to see, to his abject horror, the handle of a dagger sticking out of his stomach. Her fingers were still clasped around the handle.

"What have you done?" he said, choking on his words with the effort of not screaming. He felt blood bubbling up in his mouth and trickling down his chin and neck. She smiled at him, a soft, sweet, yet suddenly malevolent and evil smile. "Why?"

Instead of replying, she laughed at him. A loud, hateful guffaw full of malice that seemed to echo and vibrate through every fibre of his being until all the nerve endings on his body ached. Her face contorted as she laughed mercilessly until she looked like a demon, wiping the blood from her hands over her face, still laughing hysterically at him.

"Don't laugh at me!" he begged, pressing one hand over the wound to quell the flow of blood. Her face and body had now grown and mutated until she looked like the most evil foe from the stories he had heard as a child, and now she had stopped laughing. Now she advanced toward him to finish the job. With his free hand he drew his sword from its scabbard, and desperately he thrust out in front of him. He missed her body but the blade went through her neck, and he heard a dreadful, sickening snap as it broke her neck.

He recoiled in horror, dropping his sword to the ground as he realised what he had done. She fell to the ground, lifeless, her form now returned to the beautiful, sweet young girl she had been at first. The wound in his stomach had miraculously healed and now, instead of retaliating in self-defence, he had murdered the woman he loved. Kneeling beside her and sweeping her up in his arms, he tried in vain to revive her. He clung tightly to her body as he rocked her in his arms, weeping violently, ashamed and disgusted with himself for what he had done.

With a moan of anguish, his eyes opened and he found himself back in his room. He was not surprised by this. He knew all along that it had been a dream. He only ever saw her when he closed his eyes.

Slowly and carefully, he sat up and put his feet on the floor. His head throbbed with the ferocity of a hundred drummers in battle. He let out a quiet groan, which hurt his head even more. Wearily, he fumbled around his throat again before finding the locket, opening it and staring dumbly at the forget-me-nots for a few moments.

He had promised her he would always love her, that he would never leave her. In the moments when she had felt that she was at her most vulnerable, when she had needed him the most, he had turned on her, rebuked her, rejected her in the worst possible manner. He had broken his promise. Now he was a broken man, left only with regret and emptiness inside of him. His heart, once full of joy and hope, was now nothing more than a system to pump blood around his body. After it had been broken, it had never become strong enough again to mend itself. There had never been enough left for him to give to another woman, as she had claimed every last part of it for herself.

His body and his soul were no longer his to command. He belonged to France. He belonged to the King himself. He had duty and responsibility. These must now be the things to keep him warm at night, his loyalty to his Country, to his King - and to his friends. He would never tell them, and they would never know it, but were it not for Porthos and Aramis, the man now known as Athos would have never found anything to live for again. But he still saw her, every day. She waited for him in his dreams every night. Reminding him, torturing him, tormenting him, punishing him for what he had done to her. It was no more than he deserved, he knew that.

He closed his eyes and sighed heavily. Today was a new day. Today he had a job to do. The King needed his protection, his friends needed his support. He had found value and purpose in a small way, and that was real, that was the present. He could ill afford the time to sit and mope and despise himself for his actions of years ago during his waking hours. The man he had been no longer existed, but perhaps the man he now was could in some way gain his own small piece of clemency to compensate for his dark and harrowing past.

Slowly, he stood up and headed towards the window, opening it wide and letting out a cry of pain as the sunlight flooded his small, dingy room. Picking up the bucket of water that had frozen overnight with one hand, in the other he took a last look at the locket and the forget-me-nots.

He would never forget his promise, he would never forget the pain of breaking it - but he would never forget the pain that she had caused him, nor the loyalty of his friends for bringing him home when he needed them.

**THE END**


End file.
